The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Thirteen

The Pot and Stone sat squat in the middle of a small town, right on the edge of the moor. Here would be the last meal and bed he could hope for before he crossed the bleak land and entered the southern counties. It wasn't exactly what weary travellers' dreams were made of.

Whatever fantasies John had envisioned of a thatched roof, roaring fire and a joint of beef so tender that it would disintegrate under the weight of the mountain of roast potatoes piled on top of it, were dashed as soon as he saw the sign, half hanging off its hinges. There might have been an image once, but it had peeled away after decades worth of Northern rains.

As for the fire, no smoke trailed out of the sad looking chimney.

John's hopes sank from the highs of roast and potatoes to cold ham and cheese. When he pushed open the door, they settled around the level of bread and thin stew.

He kicked his heels on the side of the doorway so that the mud fell away before looking up to find fifteen pairs of eyes watching him intently.

"Any chance of a drink?" he said.

A small man, drowning in a vast apron stepped forward, wiping his hands on a rag in the universal gesture of a pub landlord. He grunted and jerked his head in the direction of a spare seat. It was a barrel, pushed up against a long table. John tried not to let his disappointment show. It appeared there'd be no chance of a quiet drink in a dark corner this morning.

The landlord slammed a small cup down in front of him and poured an ale so weak it could have passed for water. He looked like he was trying to stand as far away as possible from John. His entire body curved away like a bow, his hand outstretched, the jug practically swinging from his fingertips. The fact that any managed to slop into the mug was pure coincidence.

"Nice place you got here," said John, taking a sip. "Cosy." The landlord backed away, holding the jug in front of him like a shield.

John settled back on his makeshift stool. He nodded to each of his fellow drinkers in turn as they buried their noses in their cups and conspicuously failed to make eye contact with him. Clearly something more was expected of him. "It's good," he said, lifting the mug to toast the room in general.

He sat in silence, concentrating on his ale, and gradually the inn crept back to life. Someone brought out a pack of cards and a buzz of conversation gathered. John tried to listen in. There was lots of talk of drainage and mulch. He just concentrated on nodding along whenever it seemed appropriate.

"Yer a farmer?" asked one of the men at last. He had great bushy eyebrows that danced around his forehead as he talked. It took all John's energy not to watch them in amazement.

"No. I mean, I once had a small vegetable patch in my parent's garden. Carrots mostly. But to be honest my mum did most of the work. I mean, I was five at the time."

The eyebrows shot up, melding with the old man's hair.

"Sorry, rude of me. I should have introduced myself. I'm John," said John, offering out his hand to the owner of the eyebrows.

The drinker looked at it suspiciously over the top of his mug. "What kind of a stupid name is that?"

He'd never get used to these people and their attitude to names. It was like the entire country was in the secret service. Back when he first arrived in Serrador, a woman had once chased him down the street, hitting him over the head with her basket, just because he asked what her little girl was called. Touchy, the lot of them.

"Exactly," he said, preparing the launch into his prepared speech on the subject. "No one would ever think 'John' when they look at me, would they? It is a name so ridiculous, so uncool, so, well frankly, so un-me that no one would ever presume to think of it when I'm around. It's the perfect cover. Alex? Yes. Even Damian, perhaps. But John? Never. Like you, my friend, I'd say was a Lance or a Cliff. Something strong and manly. You'd do well to go by something like Sugar or Honey. They'd never guess that."